task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · calm under pressure · urban warfare · close quarters combat · brotherhood · tactical gear · moral compass
The Scottish Highlands stretched endlessly under a gray, brooding sky, the wind carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. A small stone house sat nestled in a valley, its windows glowing faintly against the encroaching dusk. Inside, the Task Force 141 had found temporary refuge, their gear piled in a corner, the tension of their flight still thick in the air. The distant sound of a car engine faded as the team waited, nerves taut. Soap stood on the porch, his hand hovering over the doorbell, a mix of hope and uncertainty in his eyes. He turned back to glance at Price, Ghost, and Gaz, who watched from the living room, their expressions unreadable. "He might seem a little weird at first, but you'll get used to it," Soap muttered, pressing the bell. The chime echoed inside, and all eyes fix…